Cruel Castaways Series by L.J. Shen – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Cruel Castaways Series by L.J. Shen – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com Sat, 27 Apr 2024 17:48:54 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.wownovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Cruel Castaways Series by L.J. Shen – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com 32 32 Cold Hearted Casanova (Cruel Castaways #3) Read Online L.J. Shen http://www.wownovels.com/cold-hearted-casanova-cruel-castaways-3-read-online-l-j-shen Sat, 27 Apr 2024 17:48:54 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/cold-hearted-casanova-cruel-castaways-3-read-online-l-j-shen Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Dark, New Adult Authors: L.J. Shen Series: Cruel Castaways Series by L.J. Shen
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Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)

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From USA Today bestselling author L.J. Shen comes a witty romance about a woman desperate to marry into money…and her fake marriage to a (real) billionaire reluctant to commit even to a zip code.

Riggs Bates may be a billionaire, but he knows money can’t buy happiness. He keeps his financial status a secret and takes his women the same way he takes his meals—a different one three times a day. That’s until he’s caught sleeping with a married newswoman by none other than her ambitious assistant.

Daphne “Duffy” Markham wants two things in life: marry well and stay in the States. So when her almost-fiancé takes off to “find himself” and her work visa approaches expiration, Duffy resorts to the only thing she has left—blackmail. Luckily, Riggs needs an excuse to stay in New York as badly as she does, so their first meeting quickly leads to a begrudging engagement.

Armed with strict house rules and their mutual distaste for one another, Riggs and Duffy soon find there’s no denying the spark between them…or the fact that this fake marriage is starting to feel a little too real.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply in our being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable.

—Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Girls just wanna have funds.

—Unknown

CHAPTER ONE

DUFFY

As I sat in front of Love Is Blind, crying into a sleeve of overpriced digestive biscuits, mourning my breakup with the man I thought was the love of my life, it was clear to me that my night couldn’t possibly get any worse. Maybe if I died. Even then, I’d get a much-welcome relief from my pain and anguish.

Was love blind? Quite possibly. There was no other way to excuse how I’d failed to read the writing on the wall. To be honest, it wasn’t even on a wall. It was on a bloody flashing neon billboard in Times Square, accompanied by a jingle: Duffy, you’re a fool / you are dating a tool / He’ll never ask for your hand / how daft are you not to understand?

All rights reserved, et cetera.

And, it wasn’t even a proper breakup. More like a quasi breakup. A half breakup. A don’t-expect-me-to-wait-for-you-even-though-we-both-know-that-I-will breakup. A Rachel Green, we-were-not-on-a-break breakup. You get the drill.

“Silver lining? That’s as bad as my life is going to get,” I mumbled aloud to my biscuit, which in answer crumbled onto my pajama-clad chest.

Don’t tempt me, you cow, the universe replied in the form of my mobile buzzing next to me on the couch.

“Sod off,” I muttered, before my gaze landed on the phone screen, on which Gretchen’s name flashed.

Gretchen Beatty, my boss, was the anchorwoman of The World Today, WNT’s flagship show. As her executive assistant, I was in charge of her entire life. Until six months ago, when Gretchen announced that she was taking a position as the White House press secretary and would be leaving New York for DC. Which also meant WNT was not going to renew my work visa. The worst part was, I couldn’t afford to tell my tyrannical boss just what I thought about her, even though I had only a few days left of work. She was the type of woman who would refuse to give me a reference if I so much as dared to order her grande iced americano with half-and-half instead of a dash of oat milk.

More on my woes later.

Clearing my throat, I swiped the screen. “Hello?”

“Good God, Daphne. Slacker much? It took you ten minutes to answer.”

I checked my new watch. It was eleven o’clock at night. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

I was certain there was. If making me work odd times was an Olympic sport, Gretchen would have been its Serena Williams.

“It just dawned on me that it’s Lyric’s sixth birthday tomorrow, and I was so busy with the handover to Claire, I forgot to buy my baby a gift.”

Busy with the handover, my foot. I was the one liaising with the woman who’d inherited Gretchen’s throne—investigative journalist Claire Scott—and her flock of assistants.

Since I could see where this was going from two planets away, I gave her my assurance. “I’ll buy Lyric presents first thing tomorrow morning. Do you have a budget in mind?”

Gretchen had given me her credit card two days into my employment. Ever since, I’d been in charge of running her entire life. This included getting groceries for her Manhattan flat and paying her bills. I also attended parent-teacher conferences, filled out her ballots, and wrote her op-eds for prestigious newspapers. Truly, to keep my job—and visa—I had done everything short of birthing her children myself. And only because, fortunately for me, they were already in existence.

“Tomorrow?” Gretchen slurped her drink noisily. “Time is of the essence. It has to be tonight. I’m driving up to Greenwich first thing tomorrow morning. Jason is making me attend the birthday, even though we literally have a show to shoot that same evening.” She groaned, as she did every time she spoke about her husband. “I told him I’m heading back to the city before she opens her presents. I have a business to run. Why can’t he understand that?”

Because you’re the mother of his children?

I’d only met Jason a handful of times, but I suspected he was a lot kinder than his wife. Which was something I could also say about a handful of stale nuts.

“You’d like me to go shopping for presents for a six-year-old in the middle of the night?” I asked tonelessly.

Wow, Karma. Wow. What did I do in my previous life? Skin babies for a living?

“What?” Gretchen yelled into her speaker over the loud music. “I can’t hear you, I’m at this god-awful pub. Full of peons. No one even recognized me here. Uncultured swine.”

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Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways #2) Read Online L.J. Shen http://www.wownovels.com/fallen-foe-cruel-castaways-2-read-online-l-j-shen Wed, 17 May 2023 05:15:54 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/fallen-foe-cruel-castaways-2-read-online-l-j-shen Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Authors: L.J. Shen Series: Cruel Castaways Series by L.J. Shen
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Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)

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Arsène Corbin does not intend to marry for love. His fiancée has always been a means to an end, a woman he wants to conquer. But when she dies suddenly in an accident, Arsène’s grand plan unravels.

Still reeling from his fiancée’s death, he meets Winnifred Ashcroft, a struggling actress who lands a coveted role in a play at his theater…and knows things about his late fiancée no one else does. The only problem? They can’t stand each other.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

I understand that in our work, doesn’t matter whether it’s acting or writing, what’s important isn’t fame or glamour, none of the things I used to dream about. It’s the ability to endure.

—Anton Chekhov, The Seagull

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

ARSÈNE

The roofs are different in Portofino.

Flatter, wider, older.

The pastel-colored buildings sprout from the ground, so tightly cramped together you couldn’t slide a toothpick between them if you tried. The yachts in the harbor are docked neatly and equally spaced from each other. The Mediterranean Sea glitters under the last persistent sunrays as dusk begins to fall.

I lounge on the balcony of my hotel suite overlooking the Italian Riviera, watching a ladybug spinning backward on its axis, like Venus, on the marble banister.

I flip the ladybug, helping it find its footing, then take a sip of my white wine. Tonight’s menu is perched in my lap. The wild boar ragù appears to be the most expensive option, which means I’m bound to order it, just to watch the idiots from accounting sweating into their risotto plates when they realize this conference is going to cost them much more than they planned to spend.

Corporate events are where good ideas go to die. It is a well-known fact any trade secret worth whispering will not be aired during a formal company event. Valuable market information, like a weapon, is traded in the back alleys of the industry.

It isn’t my workplace that brought us here. In fact, I have no workplace to speak of. I am a lone wolf. A quantitative trading consultant paid by the hour by hedge fund companies to help them sort through the conglomerate of potential investments. What to invest in, how much, and how to keep up with the annualized returns their clients expect of them. My friends often say I’m like Chandler from Friends. That no one has any idea what I actually do. But my job is pretty straightforward—I help rich people get even richer.

“Just trying on this new dress,” a feminine voice purrs from behind the balcony door. “Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. Don’t drink too much. You’re barely civilized for those tux-wearing cookie cutters while sober.”

After frisbeeing the menu to a nearby table, I pick up the book next to me and flip to the next page. Brief Answers to the Big Questions, by Hawking.

Since we are located on the top floor of the resort, I have a direct view to virtually all the other south-facing balconies overlooking the harbor.

This is how I notice them at first.

A couple, two terraces down from us.

They are the only ones out, soaking in the last rays of the setting sun. Their blond heads bob together. His hair is corn yellow. Hers is titian, a mixture of gold and red, like scorched desert sand.

He is wearing a sharp suit. She, a burgundy dress. Something simple, cheap looking, almost tarty. A call girl? Nah. Wall Street hedge fund tycoons invest in expensive-looking dates. The type with a built-in designer wardrobe, red-soled heels, and private school manners. Pretty Women only exist in fairy tales and Julia Roberts movies. Not a soul in Manhattan values charm, honesty, and quirkiness in women.

No. This is a country bumpkin. Perhaps an ambitious local who found her way into his bed in hopes of earning a large tip.

The couple is sharing a peach and sticky, juicy kisses. The nectar seeps down their lips as he feeds her the fruit. She grins as she nibbles on the fruit’s flesh, her gaze holding his. He kisses her hungrily, and she bites on his lower lip—hard—before his mouth rips from hers to murmur something into her ear.

The girl throws her head back and laughs, exposing the pale, long column of her neck. I shift in my seat, my book covering my ever-growing erection. I’m not sure what turns me on more. The peach, the woman, or the fact that I’m officially a voyeur. Likely, all three.

The man dips his head and licks a long trail of the nectar, not letting a good opportunity go to waste. They are leaning against the banister, his body pressed against hers.

Something passes between them. Something that makes the hairs on my neck prickle. Whatever these two are enjoying is something I don’t currently have.

I am not a man accustomed to unattainable things.

“Have you tried the white yet?” The glass door whines open. I snap my gaze toward the person the voice belongs to.

“Too much anise and truffle, right?” My date sneers and pulls a pout. She is still in her bathrobe. How many hours does one need to put on a damn dress?

I take a gulp of the wine. “Tastes fine to me. We’re going to run late.”

“And you care about tardiness since . . . ?” She arches a brow.

“I don’t. But I am hungry,” I supply flatly.

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